


Consumation

by Merit



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-16 22:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16962669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: Three times they didn't and one time they fucked.





	Consumation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemoose/gifts).



He’d passed his exams and the bone deep relief may have caused him to go a bit crazy. He wasn’t going to be sent home, memories wiped, magic on the tip of his tongue, his family swallowing some spelled lie. He almost started giggling with relief.

He’d swallowed a pill as soon as exited the exam hall, Margo on his elbow, smiling radiantly, almost walking on air. The ones who had failed had already vanished; their belongings packed away, their rooms devoid of the personalities who had lived there. Eliot was already, deliberately, forgetting they had ever existed.

They’d started at the Physical Kids house, Eliot mixing cocktails til the clock chimed midnight, sampling every second one til the bottles were liquid in his hands. He juggled them absently, the bottles moving and shimmering through the air like it was water. 

“Why don’t we go somewhere a bit more exciting?” Margo had murmured into his ear, hand warm on his waist. 

“I was ready hours ago,” he drawled and she giggled, breathless with her relief as well. The bottles gently returned to their positions; Eliot wasn’t going to waste good liquor, the magic sending sparks to his fingers, almost as good as arousal, maybe better depending on the quality of the fuck. He was hell bent on proving himself wrong.

They’d ended up at the top of a building that towered over Manhattan. Then things started to shift from focus.

Eliot was not entirely how he’d ended up at a college party. The last three days had been a blur, since he’d finished his first year of Brakebills

He thought he’d last seen Margo at dawn, Margo throwing her head back laughing, dark eyes giddy, as she accepted another bright pink drink from a handsome gentlemen with gossamer wings extending from broad shoulders.

And he’d ended up a college party, a can of Pabst hanging loosely between his fingers, so the undergrads had to be hipsters. He surveyed the crowd, cheap smoke clouding his vision and his lungs. They all looked very normal, probably _business_ students, he thought with a shudder, hand on his chest in horror. He felt Margo had won this one.

He sighed, melodramatically, raising a hand to his forehead. Through his fingers, he noticed a young man, brown hair tucked earnestly behind his ears. He was gesturing at a woman, her gaze polite, the joint burning to a husk between her dark fingernails. She offered it to the man, such a lady, and he shook his head, the red cup between his fingers sloshing dark liquid. It was almost full, such a shame. Eliot never wasted beer like that; even if it was slosh.

He raised the can to his lips, wincing as the warm beer slid down his throat. Fuck, he must have lost a few minutes there, gazing at one of the few pretty boys in the room. He closed his eyes for a second, starting when a warm body pressed against his own.

“Fuck, sorry, you know how beanbags are,” and it was that pretty boy from before, twisting and turning, his hip, his thigh brushing up against Eliot. He smelled nice, like old books and looked eager to please. Eliot had worked with worse.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Eliot said, the words slow, because he hadn’t slept in days, didn’t remember half the stuff he’d taken, the booze he’d drank. “Wait. I’m on a beanbag? My god, the indignity.”

The stranger paused, then laughed, full and throaty. He had a nice throat, Eliot noted, long and pale pretty under the dim lights. It would look great with his cock down it, he thought, the can sliding through his fingers, liquid staining the beanbag - and he couldn’t let Margo he’d sunk to this, he’d invent some tale about infiltrating one of New York’s secret gentlemen clubs and how he’d seduced all the handsome ones.

“I have a lot to apologize over,” he said, tucking an errant strand of brown hair behind his ear. Almost immediately it was free again, hanging tantalizing over full lips.

“That’s a bit too heavy for me right now,” Eliot said, closing his eyes, hooking his ankle around the other man so he couldn’t vanish into the night.

“I can tell,” he said, sounding amused now, which was better than maudlin. “What have you even taken? You were here on the beanbag when I got here.”

“I wish I could remember,” Eliot said, placing a hand on a thigh. Tight jeans, warm flesh, he stretched his fingers, imagining the jeans falling to the ground. He had to bit his tongue to prevent the spell from taking effect. “Because it was a magical combo,” he giggled, surprising himself, at the awful joke. He was perhaps higher than he imagined.

“And your friends abandoned you?” He sounded disapproving that Eliot was alone, but the girl had slipped into the crowd.

“Well,” Eliot said, grandly, fingers splaying higher, edging into something harder. He’d always been complimented on his long fingers. “She may have found a very handsome stranger to defile her,” he shrugged, “I could hardly blame her. I’d do the same,” he said very deliberately.

“I think I should be flattered,” he said, amusement wrapped around his words. “But you are kind of wasted.”

“Hmm,” Eliot said, head lolling back. “You’re very disappointing.”

“Ha,” he said. “So I tell myself.”

“Don’t be sad,” Eliot said. “There’s something out there that’s fantastic. Something so wondrous than even I fell to my knees - oh not in that way, though I _would_ \- at the glory.”

“So my therapist tells me,” he said, pulling away, digging through Eliot’s trousers. Eliot smiled, twisting, showing off his thigh. “Do you have a phone here?” When he got the phone out, the screen illuminating his face blue, he quirked an eyebrow. “Eighty missed calls and thirty-four messages? I think someone may be missing you.”

He pressed Eliot’s thumb against the phone, the phone buzzing as he missed, before he laughed with relief when the lock screen faded. Eliot felt he should protest. Technically he had some of his Brakebills study notes on his phone and he was fairly certain he was in no state to do a mind wipe. 

“Bambi? Yeah, I think I have your friend here,” he murmured, turning his dark eyes over Eliot. He paused, his eyebrows raising suddenly. “Well he’s fine, but New York can be a dangerous city. Didn’t want to leave him alone.”

“I want Bambi,” Eliot said despairingly, reaching for his phone. “Bambi,” he cried, reaching out, fingers interlocking with the pretty boy. “Save me, I’m at some college party. They served me,” he swallowed, holding the tension, “Pabst.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

Then a rush of screeching. Eliot winced, leaning away.

“So I think he’s mostly okay?” The man smiled down at Eliot. Eliot smiled, rubbing his face against his hand. “He is rubbing against me.”

When he phone call ended, he turned to Eliot.

“Your friend tells me you do that,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Rub against men,” he said.

“Oh yes,” Eliot said.

“She also said she was only a couple of minutes away,” he said. “That’s lucky.”

“It isn’t luck,” Eliot said, pressing his face against warm fingers, biting at one. “It is magic.”

“Magic,” he breathed, like he wanted it to be, like he had hoped it could be true. Then he sighed heavily, pulling away from Eliot, running a hand through his overgrown locks. “Think you can last till then? I kind of have to put in some applications. Yale awaits no man,” he said, mouth twisting, eyes darkening.

“I’m fine,” Eliot said, attempting to sit up, but then he slid down on the beanbag. He blinked.

“Oh good,” he said, smiling again. “Have a good night,” and when Eliot blinked, he’d disappeared into the party, pretty brown hair nowhere to be seen. He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, and when he opened them again, Margo was standing in front of him.

Even the shitty house music seemed to quiet in her presence.

“Bambi,” he cried, reaching out, pulling her down onto the beanbag.

“This is filthy, Eliot,” she said, muffled by the hair in her mouth. “How on earth did you end up at the hellhole? And who was the guy on the phone?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “He was pretty though,” Eliot said. "I think. I kind of forgot his face already?"

"Jesus," Margo said.

“I wanted to fuck him but he thought I was too wasted,” he looked sadly at Margo.

She laughed. “You’re such a mess, Eliot,” she said fondly, running her fingers through his hair.

 

 

 

Eliot was drunk, again. He’d stumbled out of his marital chamber, fingers shaking, because _of course_ he’d made sure Fen had a good time. He wasn’t a monster. But this was his reality and his mouth tasted like ash. There were only a couple older folks left, crowded around the fire, and they’d laughed riotously when they saw him, raising their glasses. Celebrating his wedding night.

He’d collapsed on a chair, the wooden limbs creaking dangerously, a drink in his hand, and he wasn’t sure how he’d got it. His limbs were stretched out in front of him, like impossible spiders unable to be controlled, and he only managed to bring the flagon up to his mouth with great difficulty. The edges of the room were fuzzy, limned with yellow, and when he blinked it felt like a curtain of sand stretched across his vision.

He welcomed it, because every time he blinked, he saw Mike’s face. Smiling, laughing at something Eliot said. Or stretched gruesomely in death, rage curdling his handsome features ugly, the hollow feeling in Eliot’s heart growing expansively.

People moved like shadows, flitting in and out of his sight. Some of them spoke to him, and he must have said something to them, because they left him alone. The fire dying in front of him, the night encroaching in.

“Eliot,” Quentin said and Eliot was too drunk to jump. He turned slowly, struggling to bring his muscles under his control, like a poorly trained puppeteer.

“You’re the High King of Fillory,” Quentin said, and Eliot knew how much the series meant to the geek, how he had been overjoyed when he found out the world was actually real, but he didn’t sound jealous. He sounded awed, staring at Eliot out of the corner of his eye.

“So the sword says,” Eliot said, like he was a fucking Arthur, meant to save Fillory from doom. He reflexively took a swig from the flagon of ale someone had foisted on him. He’d accepted every drink handed to him, Margo’s dark eyes glaring at him, but hadn’t been enough to quench the coldness inside him. His fucking lover had been possessed by the Beast and he'd killed him. “The blacksmith wasn’t quite the Lady of the Lake.”

“The last kings and queens of Fillory were the Chatwin children,” Quentin mused, sounding like a historian. He even dressed for it sometimes, Eliot sound, tossing the dregs of ale down his throat. He screwed up his mouth. Ugh, he must have lost track of time, getting maudlin. Ale tasted fucking rank warm.

“You loved those books,” he slurred, and Jesus he was drunk.

Quentin smiled, like a flower opening under the sun, and starting talking.

Quentin was distractedly pretty. When he talked, hair falling into his face, brown eyes lit up like there was a fire behind them, hand gesturing with excitement, Eliot drifted. Imagining what he’d do to Quentin mouth, make him quiet for a moment, thread his fingers through Quentin’s hair, pull at it, because Quentin looked like the type who liked a little bit of pain and wasn’t magic fueled by pain? Eliot was _helping_ him.

“Eliot,” Quentin said, and Eliot shook his head, shaking off cobwebs.

“Oh yes?” Eliot murmured.

“You haven’t been listening to me at all,” Quentin said, giving up the pretense of standing, flopping next to Eliot. Knee to knee, hip to hip, warm against Eliot’s side. The chair increased the creaking sounds.

“I may have wandered for a moment there,” Eliot said, waving a hand in the air, fingers twirling. Quentin watched him for a moment, a faint blush brushing the top of his cheek bones.

“How did you get used to all of this?” Quentin said, low and quiet, his breath warm against Eliot’s neck.

“This?” Eliot said, drawing him out.

Quentin snorted, rolling his eyes, shifting in the couch next to Eliot. “Magic. Brakebills. Now… Fillory.”

“Oh that,” Eliot said.

“Because when I was accepted. When I found out magic was real, it was like every wish I had as a kid. Fuck, every dream since last year! They had all come true. I was learning magic, surrounded by amazing people and it all seemed terribly unreal that something wonderful was happening to me,” Quentin said in a rush. "'And now we're kings and queens of Fillory?"

“But it is not all wonderful,” Eliot said. “We have a Beast to kill or die trying. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m the High King of Fillory and I don’t think they mean in the marijuana sense. But it is a fucking better sight than what is out there.”

Quentin stared at him, brown eyes warm, and Eliot just wanted to take his hand and take him to a quiet room for a fuck.

But he couldn’t.

Fuck Fillory.

 

 

 

When Eliot returned to Earth, returned to the Physical Kids house, he expected the situation to be fucked up.

He’d just escaped from cannibals. After sending a fake version of his father; his deepest fear apparently, _thanks dad_ , off to the cannibals in order to make time for an escape. So he could his with his wife and his teenage (maybe) daughter.

Perhaps he was getting maudlin in fatherhood.

He thought things would be fucked. Magic was driving him to edge and he was basically a paragon of stability. At least compared to some of those fairy fuckers.

He hadn’t counted on Penny being a fucking astral projection, like some type of Force ghost. And he could thank Margo for making him watch both trilogies, even the prequels! because she had rolled her dark eyes, garnet wine swishing in her glass, “Because Ewan McGregor is fucking gorgeous, Eliot.”

But he learned there wasn’t much he could rely on. Not even magic. And he missed magic like a phantom limb, almost there, but a sucker punch to the throat when he realized it was still missing. Taken away by some super powered gods, like the human race had been given a time out by some distant parents.

But Penny was dead. Alice still has traces of the niffin around her eyes, in her sharp movements. Kady was apparently in some shithole rehab because she'd lost all hope when Penny had carked it. And Eliot felt like he hardly knew these people, these problems, after Fillory and the fairy infestation.

But they were all united in seeking the keys. Everyone wanted magic back. And the ache only intensified when he saw Julia smile, a glimmer of magic around the curve of her cheek.

The next day, he was dressed himself in his old clothes. Magic might be gone, but the Physical Kids still recognized that Eliot would come rampaging to end them if they touched his precious clothes. He straightened the tie, smoothed a hand down the woolen fabric of his vest and smiled at himself in the mirror.

He barely looked like a king of Fillory. One night back on Earth and he could wash away all traces of that life.

Then he turned, a shadow deepening in his eyes, lines around his eyes that he would have magic’d away if magic still within his grasp. His clothes couldn’t take the Fillory from him. Couldn’t unmake him a king.

Well. He had a wife and daughter now. Old Eliot would have been bamboozled by that turn around in fate.

“Eliot,” Quentin said, hair pulled back into a ponytail, dressed in dark, serious colors.

“Quentin,” he drawled, opening the bottle and staring at the amber liquid as it held all the secrets to life’s mysteries. But for once, he didn’t drink, letting it drop to the floor. He was sure someone would find it and have more fun with it than he could at this time. Or just get drunk to forget that magic had been turned off by some cosmic plumber.

“How’s Fillory?” Quentin said after a pause, biting at his lip.

“Oh the usual,” Eliot said, waving his hand. “Only without magic and a fuck ton of fairies in the castle. They’re the worst, you know.”

“And your daughter,” Quentin said.

“Her?” Eliot smiled slowly. “Yes, another fairy queen surprise. Apparently time works differently in the fairy realm. So we’ve skipped all the fun stages and landed on mouthy teenager. Ugh, I even thought teenagers were the worst when I was a teenager.”

“I always wanted to be able to guide my child through their teenage years,” Quentin mused, eyes distant in thought, “Hopefully they’d be happier than I ever was as a teenager," he paused. "Young adult. God, til Brakebills.”

“Well that can still happen,” Eliot said. “Just try and make sure she’s not a changeling fairy spy,” Quentin jerked, wooden chair jerking under him scraping against the floorboards. Eliot waved a hand, shrugging, “An idle thought, Quentin. She’s just terribly convenient, isn’t she?”

“Children are never convenient,” Quentin said dryly. “That’s not their purpose in life.”

“Oh aren’t you the philosopher king,” Eliot said, smiling back at him. Quentin laughed, warm brown eyes lighting up and for once Eliot didn’t stop himself. He walked smoothly over, long legs covering the space quickly. Quentin was still smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling, when Eliot tilted his chin up and kissed him.

The laugh was caught between them, Quentin’s shoulders arcing up, his body tensed. And then he relaxed, leaning his head back, easier access. Eliot ran a finger up his neck, the muscles quivering, his scent taking on a stroker tone. Eliot stepped back and Quentin rose up, leg between Eliot’s thighs, fingers in his curls. The kiss between them was incendiary.

Quentin was breathing heavily. He swallowed, open his mouth, and Eliot stole another kiss, dragging his teeth across Quentin’s swollen lip.

“We have - we have to get the key,” Quentin murmured, closing his eyes, hands on Eliot’s chest like he wasn’t sure he should push him away, or drag him closer.

Eliot closed his eyes, his heart beating like a drum in his chest.

“Fine,” he murmured. He’d already waited what felt like a lifetime. “How long could this quest take after all?”

Quentin sighed heavily, walking around the table. He stared down at the books in front of him.

“You sent Fen and Fray into the city?” Quentin said, leaning forward, somber and serious as if his lips weren’t flushed from their kiss.

 

 

As soon as the door shut behind them, Quentin was on him. Hands sliding between the buttons of his shirt, nails digging into his skin, lips on his throat. Within seconds, Elliot was getting hard, feeling feverish.

“Quentin,” he murmured, quietly, “Now I don’t object to this. I’d object to you stopping actually. But what brought this on?”

“We could die tomorrow,” Quentin said, running his teeth up Eliot’s jawline, fingers digging the waistline of his trousers, buttons popping off his shirt. “Don’t you want to fuck before then?”

“Well,” Eliot said, spreading his legs, Quentin’s head dark between his thighs, “Your logic is impeccable.”

Quentin’s fingers were quick and nimble, deft and clever as they unbuttoned Eliot’s trousers. Eliot’s cock popped out, already half hard. Quentin leaned in, close enough that Eliot could feel his breath on the sensitive skin there. Then he breathed in, a smile forming on his face like he had tasted ambrosia.

“Fuck you’re going to be the death of me,” Eliot said, running a hand through Quentin’s hair.

“You know I like it when you pull it,” Quentin said softly, like a feather falling through the air.

Eliot paused, Quentin’s hair still threaded through his fingers. And yes, he _did_ know. He’d lost count, then, the number of times Quentin had fallen to his knees in the soft dirt. Quentin had smiled up at him, wrinkles forming like a fine tapestry across his face over the years. Then he’d press his head against Eliot’s hand, smiling, the taste of peaches on his lips.

He pulled, gently, Quentin arching back like a violin in his hands. There was an expression of pure joy on his face and it was probably mirrored on his own.

“I’ve missed this,” Quentin said, voice thick, fingers looping around Eliot’s cock. Then he opened his mouth, taking the head of Eliot’s cock between his plush, pink lips. Watching Quentin swallow him, tongue firm against his cock, caused Eliot to shudder. Quentin’s hair was around his fingers, like shorn silk, and he tugged. Gently at first. Then Quentin moaned enthusiastically, eyes dark with approval. Harder, playing Quentin like an instrument, his face lit up with joy, as Eliot thrust into his mouth.

When he came, it was a release that felt decades into the making. Quentin sighed, jerking back, come splattered on his chin and his cheek. He seemed surprised that he didn’t have a cock in his mouth.

Eliot, head still reeling, his nerves on fire, fell to his knees. He kissed Quentin, mouth wet, licking at the corners, taking in the salty taste of his come off Quentin’s lips.

Quentin shuddered, thrusting up against Eliot, his erection hard against Eliot’s hip.

It was times like these that Eliot wished he had access to magic. A spell to get rid of their clothes seemed like the perfect addition. Instead he had to manhandle Quentin’s jeans, too tight, probably wanted to impress, til he was gasping and naked on the bed. He was fairly certain Quentin had helped but at the sight of Quentin’s naked body, less pressing matters vanished from the forefront of his mind.

Quentin spread his legs, his cock bobbing prettily against his stomach.

“You’re making a mess of yourself,” Eliot said, running a finger down Quentin’s stomach. He savored the taste, tongue swirling around finger. Quentin’s pupils flared.

Eliot didn’t break eye contact with Quentin as he thrust the finger up into Quentin.

Quentin broke first, shuddering, eyes shut, face twisting with pleasure, mouth open. He thrust back down on Eliot, toes curling in the sheets. Delicately, Eliot licked a long line up Quentin’s cock. Fucking Quentin with one, two fingers, a counterbeat to the cocksucking.

His was face was flushed, eyes squeezed shut, mouth opening and shutting as he shuddered, pushing back on Eliot. Quentin bit his lip, as Eliot teased his cock head, exhaling sharping as Eliot took him in deeper. His fingers frantic, an unrelenting beat deep inside of of Quentin. Eliot felt his dick stir between his thighs, like he was a fucking teenager. And he _longed_.

“Do you remember what we’d do? Fuck for days when the weather was bad,” Eliot murmured, fucking Quentin with his fingers. “I’m going to do that to you once this is all over. Fuck you til you’re weak and still begging for it.”

“Yes,” Quentin cried, face screwed up tight. Then words seemed beyond him, as he shuddered and came, white streaks decorating his stomach. He sagged, gentle as a feather, even tense muscle relaxing. And still Eliot continued to finger fuck him, until Quentin sighed, tapping at his fingers.

Eliot kissed Quentin’s thigh, his fingers emerging slickly. He stretched, body curling around Quentin’s.

“Tomorrow,” Eliot whispered, as Quentin drifted off to sleep. He pressed a kiss against Quentin’s forehead, smoothing away the frown. “Tomorrow, we’ll fucking bring back magic and then I’ll.” He paused.

“What will you do?” Quentin asked, blinking sleepily up at him.

Eliot swallowed, suddenly his mouth was dry, words escaping him. “Tomorrow I’ll tell you,” he whispered. “Tomorrow I’ll have magic and I’ll be invincible.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Quentin said softly, curling into Eliot like he was the key had been searching for all long.


End file.
